


Make the Last Time Just Like the First Time

by TasteTheRainbow



Category: Teen Wolf (TV) RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Summer Camp, M/M, Pure PWP, With a little Emotional PWP for flavor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-08
Updated: 2013-01-08
Packaged: 2017-11-24 03:31:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,588
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/629885
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TasteTheRainbow/pseuds/TasteTheRainbow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Colton was sure that spending his final summer before college at a music camp was going to be the worst experience of his life.  That was before he realized trumpets and tubas weren’t the instruments he was going to spend his time blowing.  <span class="small">I promise this fic is not full of puns like this.</span></p>
            </blockquote>





	Make the Last Time Just Like the First Time

**Author's Note:**

> written for stop_drop_howl, for the prompt _Summer Lovin'_.

It was the perfect summer plan, really: 24 concerts and music festivals in 12 weeks. Between Dylan’s tent and Colton’s car, it wouldn’t have cost that much; some of the shows were even free. They would be heading off in separate directions in the fall, set to attend college in different states, so the time together would be perfect for making memories that would carry them straight through to winter break. Hoechlin, who Colton’s parents have always assumed is responsible simply because he’s a couple of years older than Colton, said he would chaperone. 

It would be road trips, maybe a couple of seedy motels between campgrounds, and festival food. Sunburns and overexposed photos and shirtless dancing in muddy fields; everything the perfect summer should be. 

But because the universe apparently hates Colton like poison, his father’s response to this brilliant plan was, “I think you need to do something more productive with your time,” and before Colton could construct a reasonable argument, he was enrolled in a fucking music camp while Dylan and Hoechlin set out on the trip of a lifetime without him. 

Colton was, needless to say, unhappy.

That is, until he got to music camp eight weeks ago and discovered that it’s really just a front for aspiring bands and singer-songwriters to pretend they’re already famous, getting stoned behind the studio and fucking, well, everywhere.

Now he’s thinking of erecting a statue to his father in the front yard when he gets home. Or he would be, if he wasn’t trying to think of anything but going home right now. He was sure that this was going to be the most torturous two months of his life, but it feels like it’s sped right by and now Colton isn’t sure how he’s supposed to return to his real life, his boring-as-hell life, tomorrow. 

He still can’t play the guitar, or any instrument really. As he sits on the bridge railing, staring at the rays of light that rush through the openings in the leaves, he holds it in his lap, but the strumming is pretty embarrassing. He doesn’t really care – there’s nobody around to hear him anyway. They’re all down at the lake, getting slippery naked and trashed to celebrate the end of their time together.

“That thing’s gonna be fuckin’ lucky when you head home,” he hears someone say from a few feet away.

Colton looks up to find Tyler, hands tucked into the pockets of his board shorts, skin golden brown from his refusal to wear a shirt at all these past few months. He stops at the end of the bridge, leans his hip against the post, and considers Colton with an amused expression. Fucking Tyler Posey, with his eyes that genuinely, literally sparkle and his crooked smile that can charm anyone out of his or her pants in about ten seconds. (Fifteen if you’re as good at playing hard-to-get as Colton is, thank you very much.)

Petting the curve of the guitar’s body, Colton purses his lips and says, “Don’t listen to him, baby. We’re perfect together.”

Tyler laughs and pushes off the post to step closer. “That what you tell all the girls to get ‘em outta their panties?”

“Have I seemed the least bit interested in panties since I got here?” Colton challenges with a raised eyebrow.

Wordlessly, Tyler presses into the space between Colton’s knees and rests his hands on Colton’s thighs. He slides his fingers along the waistband of Colton’s shorts and looks up at him through his lowered brow. “Nah. And it’s a damn shame, too. Bet you’d look real pretty in a lacy little pair.”

If he didn’t think Tyler would be more concerned for the guitar, Colton might smash it over his head right now. Instead, he lowers it to the ground at his side and props it against the railing. 

He slings an arm around Tyler’s neck and pulls him in, eyes locked, unable to look away. Colton’s hooked up with a few people since he’s been here, but Tyler’s the only one who’s actually slept in his bed on multiple occasions. After a couple of weeks, the walk of shame just seemed pointless.

“You gonna write me letters when you get back home, Colton?”

Colton laughs as he buries his face into the crook of Tyler’s neck. “You’re an idiot,” he whispers affectionately.

Arms circling Colton’s waist, Tyler skims one hand over the back of Colton’s head. Against his ear, he says, “We gonna do this here or you wanna go back to the cabin?”

While the idea of fucking on the bridge is hot and all, they’ve done it already. More than once, with their swimsuits around their ankles while the sun baked their sweat-slick bodies and Tyler screamed loud enough to bring a group of girls running to their aid. Ah, camp memories.

“C’mon,” he says, jumping down from the railing to take Tyler’s hand in his. 

They only take three steps before Tyler stops and arches an eyebrow. “Seriously?”

“Oh, fuck you,” Colton teases, turning to grab the guitar by the neck. It’s not like he’s grown up with one surgically attached to his hands like Tyler has. He forgets sometimes.

They make small talk on the trek through the woods – Colton’s captured Tyler’s life outside this camp in the smallest snapshots, but he won’t dare admit how he’s lain awake, thinking about the holes in the bigger picture, wondering and imagining what Tyler is like when he’s not here – while brushing their shoulders together and making stupid faces when the conversation lulls. 

His roommate hasn’t spent a night here since Colton moved in, so he doesn’t bother locking the door. If he worried that the mood would be broken during their time-out, the doubts dissipate in the time it takes to set the guitar in the stand by the bed. When he looks back up, Tyler’s shorts are in a pile at the end of the bed and he’s crab-walking the length of it to rest his head against the wall.

“You got some catchin’ up to do, man,” Tyler teases.

Colton can’t help laughing – he seems to do that a lot with Tyler – as he works the button on his shorts. “Feel free to start without me,” he says, nodding toward Tyler’s lap, where he’s lazily rubbing his dick.

“No worries,” Tyler says, tilting his head back and closing his eyes as though he doesn’t need Colton at all. He rests his feet on the mattress, lets his knees fall open as he rolls his balls against his hand, sucks on his own bottom lip like it’s the best thing in the world.

Shit, Colton could almost let Tyler finish without him, too. 

Kicking his shorts onto Tyler’s, he grabs the lube from his bag and the condoms Tyler bought from a counselor – what a fucking joke of a term that turned out to be – from the desk. He tosses them both onto the bed before following Tyler’s path up the bed on his hands and knees. 

Without looking, Tyler spreads his thighs to accommodate Colton, opening his eyes only when he feels Colton’s lips on his collarbone. He brings one hand to the back of Colton’s neck, fingers digging into his spine as Tyler shifts his hips and arches his back to find a more comfortable position. 

Colton’s biceps strain as he holds himself over Tyler, knees pressing hard into the flimsy mattress, sucking and licking along the column of his throat. He fights to ignore the hardening length of Tyler’s cock against his hip, Tyler's fingers brushing against his side when he finally finds his mouth.

Colton has never really been the guy who can make out for hours, spread out over someone and plundering his mouth until they’re both breathless, but Tyler is pretty easy for kissing. The night that Colton made him come in his pants just from biting his bottom lip was particularly memorable. It doesn’t hurt that Tyler moans into Colton’s mouth like he’s feeding him the sound, writhing under him until they both begin to sweat.

When Tyler’s hand slips over the curve of Colton’s ass, Colton groans and forces himself to tear away from the kiss and draw a ragged breath. He wanted to take this slow, to savor the time they have left, but fuck if Tyler doesn’t know all of his buttons in just a few short weeks, if he’s not leaning hard on them now.

The same fingers that skim nimbly over guitar strings during the day now work their way over Colton’s body, squeezing his ass until their cocks grind together, working between his cheeks to play just as nimbly over Colton’s hole. He growls, biting Tyler’s jaw in response to that move.

Tyler laughs, hooking his ankles over Colton’s thighs. “You’re such a slut for a couple fingers in your ass,” he says, eyes doing that annoying sparkle thing in the orange light of the sunset filtering through the dirty windows.

Colton wants to respond, wants to shut him up, but that would mean that Tyler would stop talking and, well, Colton doesn’t actually want that to happen at all. There’s something about the slow, slurred cadence of Tyler’s voice in bed that gives him a new appreciation for unabashed dirty talk.

Sometimes it’s silly, like when Tyler muses about licking an ice cream sundae off of Colton’s back and eating the cherry out of his ass. Sometimes it’s downright stupid, like when he insists that Colton’s dick would look amazing in a pair of black lace panties. Sometimes it’s a nonsensical collection of filth that doesn’t mean anything at all, like when he mumbles _fucker cockhole harder shit whorefuck_. All of it makes Colton embarrassingly, painfully hard.

“You gonna fuck me sometime soon?” 

_That_ may be Colton’s favorite thing to hear.

He shifts onto his knees, reaches for the lube, and tosses a condom onto Tyler’s chest. “Open that for me, sweetheart,” he says with a wink, earning a smack to his hip in response.

Taking the pillow Tyler offers, Colton slips it under Tyler’s hips and slicks his fingers, actively ignoring the fact that he’s now going to have to sleep on that flat, camp-issued pillow. Whatever. He has more important things to think about right now.

It’s almost surprising how tight Tyler is. Colton moans at the pressure to his fingers alone, pressing his other hand into his lap when he thinks about how awesome it’s going to feel around his dick. 

Tyler arches into the touch, finding the rhythm as easily as any song he’s ever played, eyes clenching and opening, satisfied smile spreading over his face when he chuckles. “Feels so fucking good,” he says happily.

“Looks like I’m not the only finger slut, huh?” he asks, massaging Tyler’s thigh as he adds another.

Humming an affirmation, Tyler pushes his hips down against Colton’s hand, forcing him deeper until Tyler gasps and sighs again. Jesus, he’s always so fucking blissed out, so satisfied at every intimate touch, every kiss. If Colton admits to missing anything about Tyler after today, it’ll be that.

“C’mere, Colton.”

Or maybe it’ll be the way Tyler says his name, maybe that’s what he’ll miss most. 

Snapping himself out of the morose thought, Colton shifts forward on his knees and thinks unsexy thoughts while Tyler rolls the condom over his cock. 

“Alright,” he finally says, flinching away suddenly, afraid he’s about to shoot off like a virgin. “Dude, I gotta,” he stops himself by clamping his teeth over his bottom lip, afraid of how damn cliché he’s going to sound if he keeps talking. 

Tyler just readjusts himself, taking his own cock in hand, stroking it slowly as Colton eases into him. They’re both grunting, sweating in the August heat, cringing and hissing each other’s names.

“Fuckin’ hell, Colton. Could you be any fucking bigger?”

Colton can’t help smirking – that’s not the worst on the ego – as he waits for Tyler to open his eyes, to let him know that he can actually move.

There are tears in the corner of Tyler’s eyes when he blinks at the ceiling and breathes steadily, in through his nose and out through his mouth. He still looks like the first time, even though it’s the last.

Finally, Tyler grins and lifts his head to say, “You waitin’ for an engraved invitation, asshole? Fucking fuck me.”

Colton can’t imagine it gets much better than this. Tyler is hot, perfect pressure around him, spread out under him, wanton and begging for him. It’s the kind of hot he was led to believe was only manufactured for porn. Fuck.

It doesn’t take long for Tyler to jerk his wrist, his body going still as he comes suddenly. His eyes fly open, surprised, before they drift closed again. He licks his lips, clenches around Colton, whines like he’s fucking dying, while he’s coming all over his own stomach. 

He drapes his arms around Colton’s hips, rests his warm, sticky fingers against Colton’s ass, and pulls him forward with a strength he should not possess right now. He keeps muttering, “Come on, fuck me, Colton, fuck me, come on,” like it’s stuck on a loop in his head. He slips his wet fingers over Colton’s hole, relentless in his teasing until Colton does as he’s told, orgasm thundering through his chest, pounding against his skull. If anyone ever tries to convince him that this is not the best feeling in the world, he’s going to punch them.

He barely rolls off of Tyler, barely catches his breath, before Tyler is sitting up to reach for the guitar. 

“You’re seriously gonna play that thing right now?”

With a smirk, Tyler says, “Gotta recoup somehow, right?” He strums a few bars and then smacks Colton’s stomach with the back of his hand. “C’mon. Get up. Play the song I taught you.”

It’s barely a song. It’s more like a fumbling rendition of what’s supposed to be _Free Fallin’._ Colton could tell him as much – he has, many times this summer – but it doesn’t seem all that important right now. 

After an awkward verse that Colton stops and starts four times – he’ll claim to be thrown by the long line of Tyler’s naked back as he leans over the bed to retrieve a joint from the pocket of his shorts – Colton stops and tilts his head.

Tyler releases a plume of thick smoke, squinting through it when he asks, “What?”

It’s stupid. He shouldn’t even say anything. They’ve talked about this a hundred times over the course of the summer, alone and with other people. It’s just a summer fling. It doesn’t follow them home. It can’t. 

He asks, “You really want me to keep in touch?” anyway. 

The guarded look in Tyler’s eyes makes him regret it immediately. He almost backtracks, but Tyler reaches out to run his fingers over Colton’s knuckles against the strings. “I want you to write me a song.”

Colton laughs outright, hard enough to make his stomach hurt.

But Tyler’s not joking. “I’ll give you my email, but you can’t hit me up until you’re ready to play it for me.”

“I don’t even have a guitar, idiot.”

With a shrug, Tyler presses his hand against Colton’s and says, “Take her,” with a nod toward the instrument. “You guys are perfect for each other, right?”

“Yeah,” Colton answers, but he’s pretty sure they’re not talking about the guitar anymore.


End file.
